


Thy Kingdom Come

by littlemiss_m



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (in singular), (or at least a hopeful one considering), Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Surrogacy, Wakes & Funerals, no prophecy no war, noctis dies anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: Three weeks after his honeymoon, Prompto buries his husband and becomes the heir to the throne of Lucis.This is the story of his survival, one quarter of a step at a time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, to anyone following my other works -- sorry for suddenly dropping off of the face of Earth! Totally ran out of creative juices and had to take a little break from everything. I'm ready to get back to a regular updating schedule, though, so here we go! (If anyone is wondering, the next chapter Malus Coronaria will be up this Sunday as usual.)
> 
> This fic is something I actually wrote months and months ago -- last fall, if I remember correctly -- but for some reason, I wasn't satisfied with the way it was written and felt that it needed too much work to be ever looked at again, so I didn't post it. Yesterday I ended up reading through the whole thing, realized it was actually not that bad at all, and figured.... what the heck, let's post it.
> 
> Finished fic, ten chapters, one update every Wednesday. Please enjoy, y'all! <3
> 
> (Also like. Read the tags, folks.)

It's a sunny day, easily the most beautiful one during the entire lenght of the summer so far, yet Prompto wishes it was anything but. He's baking in his heavy black coats, dizzy from a gazillion things at once – the heat, the grief, the lack of sleep and the hunger he's too sick to sate – and if nothing else, some rain would at least soak his face, let him cry. The skies could be gray as his mood, as they always are in fiction, and he could be just another soaked figure marching forward in the seemingly endless procession. But no – it's not raining, and so Prompto's suffering tenfolds.

Regis awaits inside the temple, along with the visitors and several members of his council, those too old to make the walk, too sick, too tired. The last time Prompto closed the distance between the Citadel and the Grand Temple of Bahamut, it was the happiest day of his life, full of smiling people as he floated up the aisle to his awaiting fiancé, wiping tears off his own grin. Now, Prompto and Noctis travel together: one in a coffin, and the other begging for death.

Prompto had his moments alone, first with the body and then with the coffin, sobbing over both as his heart tried its best to follow its match. He had his moments with his friends and his new family, with the rooms now called _his_ rather than _theirs_ , so many moments of grieving and crying and yelling at the gods – moments of silence, of peace and quiet, of privacy, moments he's no longer afforded. He's in the public now, walking in a procession led by a handful of Crownsguards, Noctis behind them on a flower-covered funeral hearse, old and intricate. Prompto saw it once before, tucked away in the Citadel stables; back then, Ignis told him it wouldn't be pulled out till Regis died, because no-one – no-one – ever thought Noctis would go before Regis. There are four black chocobos pulling the open hearse forward but despite their soft _kwehs_ and ruffled feathers, Prompto doesn't have it in himself to care.

He walks behind Noctis, eyed fixed straight on the coffin, but still he sees the masses huddling on both sides of the road they take. On his wedding day, they were all smiling and cheering, tossing flowers on the road before his carriage and waving little Lucian flags at the cameras; now, they are all quiet, flags only visible in the pins attached to their clothes, but the flowers remain. Prompto walks forward, one painfully slow step at a time, and does not look at the white roses crunching underneath his boots.

Gladio follows him now.

He's a step or two behind Prompto, so close he can hear him move – the deep breaths of a man on the brink of breaking down, the shuffling steps of the procession – and if he turns his head to the right just a fraction, he can see the hulking shadow covering his back. Gladio follows him now, because Noctis is gone but Prompto isn't, and the marriage makes him the heir to the throne he never once wanted.

Gladio follows _him_ now, because Gladio's now his Shield. He doesn't know where exactly Ignis is – a handful of lines behind them, or already at the temple, it doesn't matter – but just as Gladio's his now, so is Ignis.

Prompto never wanted this. Not once did he ask for the throne, the crown, the power or the fame, yet here he is, trailing behind his dead husband who will be buried at the same temple where they married mere ten months before, forever tarnishing Prompto's love for the place. Here he is, a public display of grief he has forgotten how to show, a spectacle for the masses to follow. He'd had his moments in the private, but now he's out here in the open, the whole world watching him struggle forward. His grief – what's left of it – is now reduced to nothing but theatre.

When they finally reach the temple, Prompto feels like dying. His robes weight him down, joining his lungs in trying to suffocate him alive, but there's nothing he can do but walk down the aisle like he was instructed to do, like he did on his wedding day, but now all that awaits him is a dead man in a coffin. When the pall bearers lay him down, Prompto stands still for a moment, frozen in place – but then he remembers and steps forward, carefully lays a single bloom atop the coffin, and though there's so much more he wants to do – _needs_ to do – he spins around on his heels and walks to where Regis is sitting, taking his seat on the two gilded chairs now reserved for him and his father-in-law only.

Behind them, Clarus and Ignis and Iris and Gladio sit next to each other, most of them already in tears. Prompto feels nothing but relief in that he doesn't have to face them, but across the aisle, there are more people – nobility, foreign royalty, people who like him and those who think him worthless Niff trash, and if not for Lunafreya and Ravus in their midst, he wouldn't know where to look.

They sit next to each other, Luna's eyes red and watery, Ravus' arm stretched across the lenght of her back in the same way Prompto and Noctis used to drape themselves across each other. He doesn't look sad, or even upset, but rather – shocked, somehow, clearly reeling from the loss, the speed at which it happened.

Three weeks ago, Prompto and Noctis were still on their honeymoon, touring the shores and mountains of Tenebrae.

Prompto can't believe it either, but then again – the lead actor in the performance of the century, he doesn't need to.


	2. Chapter 2

The third night after Noctis' death, Prompto had walked into their bedroom and tried to go to sleep, only to realize their bed still smelled like his husband. The shock of it hit him then, the realization that not only was Noctis dead, but also that he'd never return again. Would never speak, would never laugh, would never be there again – and Prompto, laying atop the covers on his own side of the bed, reeled and threw himself off the bed with enough speed to hurt his arm.

Now, after the funeral, he still cannot sleep in the bed. Sometimes, he'll stand by Noctis' side with his entire bedy bent forward until his nose hovers above the pillows, unwilling to touch the sheets in fear of dirtying them with his own stink, and tries to find the familiar scent of Noctis' shampoo, body wash, cologne – anything to remind him of the man he loves more than himself. It works, still, but already the scents are fading, and each time Prompto steps up to the bed, he feels his heart hammer against his rib cage at a speed so fast he almost wants to throw up. When he finds the smells he's looking for, relief washes over him, but only for a moment – because as soon as he reazlises the scents are still there, he begins to fear for the next day. He wouldn't be surprised if his heart gave up on him, one of these days.

So, unable to touch the bed but unwilling to let the others know just how badly he's coping, he sleeps on the floor instead. Extra blankets and pillows would be delivered to him if he just asked, but he can't do it – can't reveal his shame, how broken he's become after losing Noctis, and so he sleeps on the bare floor, bundled up in pyjamas that used to belong to Noctis. Revelling in his misery is all he can do, because his grief is all he has.

Sleep doesn't come easy to him, but still – still he tries, because everyone around him is just as heartbroken as he is, and Prompto already feels like an unwanted burden in this new life of his. Sleep doesn't come to him, but in his grief, he knows that as fresh as the wounds on his heart still are, he's already expected to face the next day, not the past.

* * *

There are no obligations for him these days. The entire Citadel is in mourning, to a degree, and what little Prompto had scheduled – charity things, showing up at schools and at galleries, and so on – were all cancelled within moments after the Crown announced Noctis' death to the public. He's free to spend his days as he wishes and so, like an utter fool, he decides that torturing himself with the news cycle is exactly what his broken, depressed heart needs to heal.

A week after the funeral, most of the papers and journals still talk about the event, posting pictures of people in grieving, of the hearse and the coffin, of the procession – anything the hounds can get their hands on. But seven days is a long time in the world of rapidly shifting news, and soon the speculation starts. One article calls Prompto heartless and unloving because he didn't cry at the funeral or during the procession, going far enough to suggest that perhaps he might have had a hand in Noctis' death. He didn't; he wasn't even anywhere near him when it happened. Another article prints a blow-up of Prompto's face taken during the procession and waxes lyrical over his broken demeanor, and to some degree of surprise, he finds out that it's not the only one.

When they married, a lot of journalists delighted in how different they looked – like night and day, one gloomy and one bright as eternal sunshine. Now, they point at Prompto's hollow eyes and pale cheeks, the pitiful attempts of smiling during the wake when an endless queue of people lined up to shake his hand, and wonder out loud if the sun will ever shine again. It's so ridiculous Prompto can't help laughing, something akin to joy bubbling out of his dry throat – but within moments, his giggles turn into mournful sobs.

The more respectable journals all talk about one question and one question only: the future of the Crown of Lucis. A week or two after the funeral, Ignis carefully approaches Prompto and asks him if he's up to a few meetings, and Prompto agrees, because even if Ignis presents the words inside a question, he knows he can't say no. There's simply too much to be done, now, and his time of holing up in his rooms is over as rapidly as it began.

With Noctis dead, there is no-one to continue the line of Lucis Caelums, which means there is no-one to keep the magic of the Crystal alive. The people of Lucis shake their heads in disbelief and come up with ideas, each and every one of them a touch more ridiculous than the previous one, until someone remembers – Prompto is a _man_ , and surely this must have meant a plan of some sort on the Crown's part, yes? And if nothing else, it's not like Regis can't just _make_ another child, right? They're the _Crown_ , they can't just quit after one man dying!

Prompto doesn't know the poor bastard tackled with the task, but fourteen days after the funeral, someone from the PR teams steps up on the stage and tries to find a polite way to explain that somewhere out there, there's a jar full of Noctis' spunk. Surrogacy and in vitro fertilization was _always_ the goal from the get-go, and they got ready for it early on, just in case there was something wrong with Noctis' little wigglers. Prompto wants to laugh over the matter, now – recalls the embarrassed flush on Noctis' face after every visit to the doctors – but he only has tears left, and so he cries.

He cries, because Noctis is dead and he's expected to raise their child on his own, and because the plan to make said child has to be put into motion now rather than later, because it will take some twenty years before the child is old enough for the throne, and everyone knows the chances of Regis lasting for another two decades are on the negative–

Prompto cries, then dries his face and heads for the meeting to hear all the things he's expected to know and do when he eventually becomes His Royal Majesty, Prompto Lucis Caelum, the 114th King of Lucis.

* * *

For the weeks to come, Prompto continues to sleep on the floor, though his sleep is more of a lie-down, his eyes wide open against the darkness of the room as he tries to hold onto living. Every morning, he raises with the sun, collects himself before Ignis visits him with the day's breakfast and plans, and then goes through the motions until it's night again.

One morning, Prompto falls asleep just in time to miss the silent vibrations of his alarm clock. He wakes up to the closest thing to a scream that will ever pass Ignis' lips, and what follows is mayhem as Prompto tries to scramble up in panic while Ignis does the opposite, gets down on his knees to cradle Prompto on his lap. For a moment, Prompto can only stare at Ignis, at the wide-eyed panic on his face, but then Ignis crumbles into wild sobs and pure shame floods Prompto's veins, so he looks at the doorway, at the two guards hovering there behind the broken breakfast tray.

”Go,” he says, waving his hand, but the guards hesitate until he repeats the order in a louder voice, until they accept that there is nothing too badly wrong, until they accept that he's as good as their boss now – they go, and leave Prompto in the arms of the only man whose love for Noctis ever rivaled his own.


	3. Chapter 3

The day Ignis finds Prompto sleeping on the bedroom floor is the first day since Noctis' death that the household staff are called in to clean the room. Prompto, busy with meetings and lectures and the words in his brain telling him to move on, to walk on, to put one foot in front of the other and just go, doesn't know of this until he returns to his rooms later that afternoon.

He doesn't notice anything wrong, at first. He's tired from all the work – more tired than he should be, and he's fairly sure everyone else can see it on his face – and despite Ignis' intervention on the very same morning, he doesn't expect to see anything changed. His fingers fumbling for the tie pulled too tight around his neck, he drags his feet towards the bedroom and the massive closets – thankfully not shared, because it still hurts, weeks later, to see Noctis' belongings just sitting there – but as soon as he has one of the two massive wooden doors open, his knees crumble underneath him and he drops down on the floor with a thud and a cry of pain, of loss.

The carpet that used to lay before the door is gone, replaced by another one of similar design – a real, handwoven Galahdian carpet in blues and creams, shining faintly where the light hits the short hairs. There are no breakfast stains on the fabric, no spilled porridge, no blueberry curd as purple as the night; just the carpet, which Prompto doesn't even care about it. The previous one wasn't even the original one, the one that had been in the room before the wedding night and the glass of red wine they spilled on the carpet to hide other, more suspicious stains – but this is the carpet Prompto and Noctis spent the start of their wedding night on, and he still doesn't care because someone has taken the fucking sheets from his bed and he's so, so, so damn close to _screaming_ –

A hand on his shoulder is the only thing that stops him from screaming, but he still cannot hide the surprised yelp as he twists his neck to stare up. It's Ignis – of course it's Ignis, who else would it be – watching him with eyes filled with worry. ”Prompto,” he says, voice high and scared, ”are you alright? What's wrong?”

Prompto doesn't know what to say. He shakes his head, looks at the bed. ”They took the sheets,” he says eventually, mourning the last of his loss, ”Iggy, they came and took the _sheets_ –”

He cuts himself off when he realizes Ignis doesn't understand. The man stands upright above him, staring helplessly between Prompto and the bed, more lost than Prompto has ever seen him. Eventually he squeezes his eyes shut, sighs, and opens them again, extending a hand towards Prompto. ”Why won't you get off the floor, sweetheart?” he says, soft as if he's expecting to see Prompto fall apart any second now, which – which isn't that far from the truth really.

Later that night, when it's time to go to bed and Prompto still hesitates in touching the newly made bed, he plops down the toilet seat and sits down with a bottle of Noctis' favorite cologne in his hands. He uncorks the stopper and tries to sniff at it, but it's so strong he can't take it, so he smears a drop or two on the inside of his wrist, where the worst of the parfume dissipates into something wooden and fresh.

It's still not the right smell, but it's something. That night, Prompto falls asleep with his face pressed against his wrist, but dreams of Noctis still do not come to him.

* * *

One night, some four months since Noctis' death, after it has started to sink in that one day it will be Prompto sitting on the throne of Lucis, he slides into the throne room in the middle of the night. The two guards at the doors hesitate, unsure if they are to let him in or not, but a moment later they both step aside with bows. What does it matter, if he goes in tonight, when his coronation will take place in a short few years? Nothing, and they all know it.

The room is dark, only lit up by a handful of pale lights here and there. They cast tall shadows over everything and now it's Prompto's turn to hesitate, because the room looks so different right now from what it is during the day, when sunlight pools in through the massive windows. He hardly recognizes the place, but he's come too far to turn away, and so he sits himself on one of the benches that line the entire back wall, corner to door to corner, like the pews at a temple.

The throne, the dais, the elaborate masonry – in the darkness, they seem even more imposing than ever before. Noctis brought him to this room, once, when it was clear they were serious but before he proposed, and Prompto remembers the day like it was only yesterday. Early spring sunshine painting everything with a golden hue as Noctis took his hand and pulled him up the staircase on the right, taking a step at a time until they stood at the top, watching the floor below like the kings of old watched their people. These days, the throne room is reserved for ceremonial events only, and the king works out of meeting rooms and two separate offices, yet Prompto can still see the past days, the room crowded full of people begging the current king or queen for aid. Times have changed, and he's glad for that, at least.

That day, Noctis held his hand and sat him down on the floor beneath the throne, watched him with the most solemn expression Prompto had ever seen him wear as he explained what it meant to be a Lucis Caelum – and, more importantly, what it meant to marry into the family. The topic of Prompto becoming Noctis' heir until the birth of their children had been approached back then, yet he's certain that neither of them thought that a day like that would ever come. It was always going to be Noctis and Prompto, and then their child or children, them against the world together – and now he's here, alone.

Prompto doesn't know how long he sits there, if it's for an hour or two or three, but somehow it's Cor who finds him on the bench in the throne room. The guards must have called him in, he thinks, numb and dumb at once, because this isn't healthy. This isn't normal. Even he himself knows as much, yet here he is, trying to live on despite the gaping maw still holding his chest hostage.

”Prompto,” Cor sighs. He sits down on the bench by his side and rests a palm on his shoulder, like he's done so many times before, back in the days when they were a mentor and a protégé, when Cor had looked at a scraggly little blond and thought he could see something in him.

”Cor,” Prompto greets him back, the word a hollow feel in his mouth. These days, when he talks of Cor, he calls him the Marshal like everyone else. ”I don't think I can do this.”

The fingers on his shoulder tighten their hold as Cor draws in a long, deep breath. He doesn't say what Prompto knows he's thinking, because there's no point. Prompto is part of the Lucian Crown and thus he will _have_ to do things that are miles beyond his capability. Whether he can or cannot, he will have to.

* * *

In a hospital room somewhere in the city, a baby is being made. The baby will be Prompto's, but he will have no hand in its making, and only parts of its raising will be his to handle. The mere dissonance of the whole matter has Prompto failing, again, has him back in grieving and fighting a death of own. It'd be so easy to just – take a knife from the kitchenette, or to fill the tub and lay down in it, or to walk to the rooftop in the middle of the night when there's no-one around to see him, yet – yet he doesn't.

It doesn't stop him from wondering.

Seven months after the funeral, a couple weeks after Ignis nodded and told Prompto about the baby, Prompto looks up from his breakfast at Ignis, who stands in the kitchenette with his back turned. The part of his brain that's latched onto his death needs to know what would happen if he died, if the world would still keep on turning, but he can't just ask. Ignis is too worried, too careful around him, so desperate to keep Prompto standing; Prompto sees this in the way Ignis holds himself sometimes, eyes wide, chest barely rising, as if the smallest of movement could risk the world falling apart.

But the thought, the thought – it still bugs him, day after day, and one morning Prompto can no longer hold it back. He needs to know, must know, requires it like he requires food and water and oxygen, and so – so he asks. ”Iggy,” he starts, clearing his throat. ”What would – what would happen if, if – if I wasn't there, to – take the throne, when–”

”Prompto,” Ignis cuts in, voice nothing but horror as the turns around and dashes to the breakfast table. ”Prompto, please don't – please don't say things like that, please, I beg you, Prompto–”

He tries to take Prompto by hand but Prompto can't stand the proximity, hasn't been able to handle physical touch since Noctis left him, and he recoils back as soon as Ignis' fingers find him. ”I didn't mean – I don't mean it like that, Iggy,” he tries to plead, even as Ignis' expression shifts from concerned to openly hurt. ”I just, I need to know, I'm sorry! I'm not planning on – on – on anything, I just... I need to know, Ignis!”

Logically, he knows there is only one answer: the same jar of spunk that is the solution to their current situation. But he wonders what would happen if he wasn't there to keep the throne warm between Regis and the baby, if someone else would rule during that period, or if the Council would work on their own, or if people would take the chance to turn Lucis into a democracy – there are too many options, but he needs the answer because even though it's been seven months since the funeral, he still feels as if he was dying, as if his heart was was seconds away from its last beat, and – the worry of possibly making things even worse gnaws at his guts like a cancerous tumor, poisoning him from within.

It takes hours, days, a discussion after a discussion after a literal fight, extra meetings with Prompto's therapist. It takes Gladio trailing after Prompto even when he's not working, and Prompto writing his anxiety down on a letter he hands to Ignis, and even then, yet another conversation before Ignis is willing to answer.

There is no answer. Not even Ignis can spell out the future before it happens, and for now, only one thing is a fact: to guarantee that the line of Lucii will continue to reign over the country in the future, a link must be established between Regis and the as-of-yet unmade child. And, of course, like Prompto already knows – he is the only person in the world who can be that link.

His death would ruin his new family, and so he tries to live on.


	4. Chapter 4

Wherever Prompto goes, Noctis follows. He lives in Noctis' rooms, works from Noctis' office, learns and acts out the things Noctis would be doing were he still alive. He walks down hallways decorated with paintings and statues of Noctis' ancestors, of Noctis himself, wearing clothes made for Noctis or commissioned by him, decorated with the jewels belonging to Noctis' family. Everywhere Prompto turns, he sees a reminder of Noctis – a long, black hair stuck to a corner of the bedroom, a bookmark pointing out an unfinished read – and despite everyone seeing that it's not helping his grief any, there's simply no other way around it.

He is now who Noctis was meant to be.

* * *

By the time spring begins to roll in, Prompto has began to adjust to his new life alone. He sleeps huddled in an empty bed, no longer wakes up expecting to find Noctis somewhere by his side; he eats breakfast with Ignis and listens to the day's agenda, then attends meetings and lessons of all kinds. He has a scarce few years to learn everything Noctis learned during the first twenty years of his life, and at times – at so many times – it feels almost overwhelming, far too much for him to handle while still in grieving.

But life goes on, and Prompto adjusts, somehow. He still hurts, he hurts so badly he wants to scratch his heart out most days, but living on is all he has, all he is allowed to have, and so he keeps his eyes on the future others are already scripting out for him. The further behind he leaves the past, the heavier his work, and every time he allows himself a moment of calm, of acceptance, someone sees it and piles his workload just that much higher. The world cannot stop for him and his grief, his stress, but in the end, there is only so much a human can take at once.

Before everything, he used to train with the Crownsguard, under Cor's tutelage. Now, he only works with Gladio, Clarus, and Cor, the three men trying to teach him not how to fight or even how to guard himself, but how to be guarded, how to consider Gladio a shield of meat worthless before his own life, and to Prompto – who once took pride in his Crownsguard uniform and being able to protect Noctis – it is one of these lessons that has him breaking down for good.

”Keep to Gladio's back and listen to the orders he gives you,” Cor reminds him, for the hundreth time that day and the billionth since the start of this new regime, and Prompto – Prompto laughs, ugly and hysteric, as he tosses his guns down on the floor and stomps his foot on the hard tiles under his boots.

Clarus isn't here today, and that's very possibly a blessing because to Prompto, he is still first Gladio's dad and then Regis' Shield, and only then a person in his own life. He trusts Clarus in the way he trusts the police or the Crownsguard, but he does not trust him the way he trusts Ignis or Gladio or his therapist, and the difference between the two types of trust is a ravine as steep as the Citadel is tall.

So, in this massive, echoing room occupied by Prompto and Gladio and Cor, he tosses his weapons and stamps his foot, screams and cries and rages until he's on the ground sobbing, two large hands weighting down his shoulders, one tan and the other just scarred. ”I can't do this,” he sobs, hears the rushed footfalls of someone else approaching, and he's so broken he doesn't even care, ”I can't do this, I'm sorry but I can't–”

”You have to,” Gladio tells him, and Cor retreats a little as Ignis – Ignis, who has other work and shouldn't be here, Prompto remembers as much – takes his place by Prompto's side. ”I'm sorry, Prompto, but you have to.”

It's spring, and almost a full year since the funeral, and a year should be a very decent amount of time to work on one's grief, except – except Prompto hasn't had the time for that, hasn't had the space, because in this building every corner and every tile all carry a memory of Noctis in them. He doesn't know how he puts this into words but he does, wailing between explanations that hardly make sense to him, never mind the people listening to him. He's on Gladio's lap, in a tight embrace he can't escape, with Ignis' face just inches from his own, and somehow they manage to calm him down long enough for him to explain just how hard it is for him, to live in this place that is – has always been and will always be – more Noctis' than his, but then – he remembers, Ignis and Gladio live here too, and maybe they really do understand him, after all.

* * *

Two months later, Prompto leaves on his first trip as a head of state. They head to Tenebrae, to Fenestala, where Lunafreya and Ravus are awaiting them, and though Prompto's heart aches as he sees the seas of blue flowers framed by impossibly green mountains, he keeps his mouth shut and smiles the best smile in his current arsenal, a tiny, polite wisp of a thing that barely appeases the cameras pointed at him.

The last time he was in Tenebrae, it was on his honeymoon. The photographs from the tour still sit on the memory card in his crafts room, all of them collecting dust – proverbial, in this case, because he has an entire army of cleaning staff at his disposal – next to his camera. When he steps out of the car, his eyes pan the mountaintops around them, finding beauty and sights so magical he can hardly believe them, yet the spark of it is gone from his veins.

According to the PR release, this is a working trip meant to further introduce Prompto to his new title as the heir to the throne. In part, it is exactly that – both Ravus and Luna like him, and they won't shun him just because he isn't Noctis – but after his breakdown in the training room, Ignis has been working tirelessly with Regis to find a reason to get him out of the Citadel, out of Insomnia, into a place where he can try to grieve without needing to watch for Noctis' ghost haunting him.

Tenebrae, apparently, is that place.

When they step into the privacy of Ravus' personal lounge, Luna turns to him with a sad smile and an embrace so loving it makes Prompto want to cry. Ravus greets him anew with a second shake of their hands, but this time he claps his palm on Prompto's shoulder, squeezes tight and holds it there. ”I'm sorry,” he says, again, like he did at the funeral and the wake and the thing is – he still looks like he means it. Of all the condolences Prompto has had to listen to, Ravus' is somehow the one most important to him, partly because Ravus did not like Noctis much at all, and partly because he treats Prompto's grief like something belonging to Prompto alone, rather than the whole country of Lucis.


	5. Chapter 5

Fourteen months after Noctis' death, the Crown announces that the now long-awaited royal baby will be born in six months, which means four to five months to those who know what's up, and that they will take the throne on their twenty-fifth birthday.

It's a scandal.

Prompto is twenty-four years old the day it's announced. He turned twenty-three mere weeks after Noctis was buried, but no-one celebrated him that day. When the people hear that the unborn child will take the throne not on their eighteenth birthday, not on their twentieth or twenty-first, but on their _twenty-fifth_ , they rage and protest loud enough that not even Ignis can keep Prompto from finding out just how badly he's hated by his own people. He gets a lot of hate, these days, because he's blond and freckled like the most typical Niff in the world, because he lives but Noctis doesn't, because he's about to steal the throne from its rightful owners – sometimes, when he looks at journals and comment feeds and blog posts, he feels like everyone in the world has at least one reason to despise him. It's not true, of course, but a year later he's still too close to breaking down to see reason in the world.

So, the child – it will be a girl, Prompto knows by now – will take the throne the day she turns twenty-five. For some reason, everyone seems to think this was his decision, but it wasn't; though he had his opinion asked for, it was Regis who made the final call. Anyone who understands the barest bones of the Lucian government should know as much, and anyone who knows the history of the royal family should also know as much, because at times of peace the crown has _always_ been passed down to a young adult between twenty-five and thirty years of age. That's how it was supposed to be with Noctis, too, but Prompto isn't the only one still grieving his husband, and for a dozen different reasons, he is the easiest target for people looking to take out their anger.

The world hears of the baby some four months before she is to be born, but Prompto – naturally – learns of her existence the very day the pregnancy tests come back positive. It's Ignis who tells him, who sits him down and lets him know Noctis' seed has taken root, that the jar of spunk has worked its magic, and Prompto can only nod.

”Would you like to meet her?” Ignis asks. Prompto knows he's talking about the surrogate, not the baby, and shakes his head. He feels dizzy. To the side, he sees Gladio look at him with worry, but he ignores him. He does that a lot these days.

”No, I–” Prompto starts, then breaks off to hesitate. ”If she wants to see me, if she really wants to, then I'll – then I'll do it, for her, but I don't think I can – I'm sorry, but...”

He trails off, unable to admit that he already feels like they're talking about someone else's child, but Ignis nods at him, either understanding or just thinking he does. ”That's alright,” he says carefully. ”You can always change your mind. Either way, both the surrogate and the baby appear perfectly healthy at the moment, so there is no reason to worry over them.”

Worrying is something Prompto does a lot of these days. He laughs, then remembers Gladio and asks, without a second thought – ”Who's gonna be her Shield when she's born?”

The way he's understood things, the Amicitias have always coordinated their children with the Lucis Caelums, the two families aiming to create generations of rulers in the same age group. Mostly it has worked, especially in times of peace, but life has a funny way of doing what it wants, and sometimes there have been Shields decades older than their kings, and kings who swear men younger than their own children into eternal servitude.

Gladio answers him with one word that seems to carry no emotions at all, like a teacher telling the class that two plus two equals to four. ”Iris,” he says simply, no further explanations given, nor even needed, and so Prompto stumbles into the second panic attack of his life.

The first time, he was a child taking a bath at home, but the electricity got cut off and the windowless room grew so dark he couldn't make out a single outline anywhere. He tried to get out of the tub and out of the room, but as small as it was, he was even smaller, and a moment later he stood in the middle of the tiled floor, shivering and unable to reach anything solid, and when his father came looking for him, he was on the ground feeling like his body was failing on him. The second time is much the same, a fuzziness in his brain and a long, painful constriction around his lungs, familiar in a way but so much stronger than he's used to.

Later on, he will laugh at himself, mock himself over losing it over such a small, obvious issue, but in the moment, the straw is heavy as a log and his spine already bending over the combined weight of everything else, and so it goes.

Iris is a _baby_ , he tries to explain when he finds that the oxygen isn't all gone from the world. She's so small, and young, barely an adult yet, and – he sees Gladio grow darker the more he speaks, but once he's gotten started on his explanations, he can't stop – and he just can't handle to the idea of sweet, young, kind Iris becoming someone's Shield, but as is the norm these days – it's not like anyone's going to be asking for his opinion.

Gladio walks out of the room when Prompto comes out of the panic attack. Ignis is still there, kneeling before Prompto, their hands entwined together. ”Prompto,” he speaks, in the voice he uses to teach Prompto the hardest of lessons, ”from now on, when someone offers you their life... You take it and thank them.”

Prompto can't, but he must, and so he does.

* * *

The baby is born in April. Prompto learns of it when he calls the medical after noticing a missed call – it's lunch hour, now, but his morning was spent in etiquette lessons – and though he's been awaiting the words, they still leave him speechless.

At first, he sits on one of the chairs surrounding his dining table. Then he picks himself up and leaves, walks out of his rooms and towards the medical wing, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. The staff point in the right direction with congratulations he takes with the grace of a man trained to disregard his own self, and then he's in the room.

The woman isn't here, just the baby in her crib and the nurse in the corner doing – something, Prompto doesn't know, doesn't have the brain power required to understand. The baby is pink and small, surrounded by tall walls of clear plastic, and in Prompto's eyes, the crib resembles a coffin so much that he has to fight his nausea.

”Is she healthy?” he asks, instead, glancing at the nurse before turning his gaze back to the baby. He can't bring himself to touch her.

”Yes, Your Highness,” the nurse tells him. She smiles at him, steps a little closer. ”She's a big girl, too, and appears to have a pair of very sturdy lungs.”

Prompto doesn't know what to say to her. His knowledge of babies doesn't extend past the books he received from Ignis, the stilted conversations between him and Regis, but he can't imagine her being a big baby.

”And her?” he asks, eventually, then sees she doesn't follow. ”The – the woman. The mother. Her.”

He doesn't know how to refer to the woman who is neither as faceless nor as nameless as he'd like to pretend, but if the nurse thinks him awkward or uncaring, she doesn't mention it. ”Oh, of course,” she gasps instead. ”Yes, she is well. There were no complications during labor and we're expecting a swift recovery.”

That, at least, is a relief to Prompto, who has never quite approved of the idea of using a random woman in this way. If she had been hurt during the pregnancy or the childbirth... he doesn't know what he would have done. He's already so lost, staring down at this child that is supposed to be his but feels far more distant to him than the occasional baby shoved into his arms for a photograph or two, and – it's very quickly starting to grow more than his frazzled self can bear.

”Would you like to hold her?” the nurse asks when he makes no moves to do so. Startling, Prompto twists his head to stare at her, at the expectant smile – the joyous smile – and the cheery tilt of her head.

He feels like he's going to puke.

”Excuse me,” he stutters, turning around on his heels, ”I need to go.”

Running forbidden unless in the case of an emergency, Prompto walks out of the room. The nurses let him.


	6. Chapter 6

Prompto hides himself in a corridor that the tour guides introduce as one of the secret routes but that is, in reality, simply a shortcut for royal use. Though it's scarcely used, it's elaborately furnished, a deep red rug running from one end of the corridor to the other, narrow tables and statues lining the walls. Electric lights shine down on a line of paintings, each of them more expensive than Prompto's worth used to be, but he has no care for the arts today.

He sits on a long bench, padded and wrapped in black leather, head hung down and arms folded over his knees. The blue walls paint his already pallid skin a dirty gray as dull as his mind, and even after his tears run dry, the utter hopelessness remains.

Of course, he can't remain in the corridor for forever. He's done this many a time before, has hid himself for an hour or two or three in search for some quiet, some peace, something to settle his tumultuous mind – but this is the first time he's left during something _important_ , the first time he's allowed someone to see him leave, so when Regis joins him on the bench, he's not surprised in the least.

”I can't do this,” Prompto says as soon as he hears the familiar, uneven clank of Regis' shoes on the carpeted floor. ”I can't do this, Regis, I can't.”

Regis speaks nothing at first, simply continues down the corridor until he reaches the bench. He sits down on Prompto's left, sighs loud and deep and exhausted, and grasps for Prompto's trembling fingers. There's nothing he can say that Prompto hasn't heard before. There's nothing Prompto can say that he hasn't spoken before.

”I am hardly the best person to talk of this,” Regis speaks eventually, after minutes have passed in silence, ”but after Clarus lost his wife... She went during childbirth – I don't know if you've heard – and there was nothing to signal it coming. Afterwards, Clarus could hardly spare a glance at Iris.”

Prompto's heart trembles in a way that he used to associate with his anxiety, but which now tends to accompany his every breath. He understands what Regis is trying to say, appreciates the kind comfort in the words, but his problem isn't Noctis or Noctis' death, he doesn't think the baby his killer, can barely associate him and her together.

”But that's not my child,” Prompto pleads, admitting to thoughts he hasn't dared put into words no matter how often they've spun about in his head. ”She's – I don't know who she is, but she's not mine.”

He watches the bob of Regis' throat, the long blink of his eyes, the steady rise of his chest as he draws in a deep breath. ”She is yours,” he says, soon, ”and that is why you need to be with her. Son, I – I know that the life you have now is not what you envisioned when you and Noctis were wed, but... We must do what we must do, Prompto. There is no other way for us.”

Four words are left unspoken: you agreed to it. It's something Prompto has to tell himself every time he feels like he's about to crumble: that by agreeing to Noctis' proposal, he agreed to the numerous laws and rules of the royal family. He knew about the possibility of this happening, was walked through this and so many other scenarios by Ignis before Noctis even proposed, and so he shouldn't complain.

He shouldn't, but he does anyway, because it's just so much more than what he can take.

* * *

Back in the room, Regis sits him down and puts the baby into his arms. He, too, calls her a big child, with a watery grin that reminds Prompto that this is his first – and likely last – grandchild, yet the bundle of squirmy fabric in his arms is so _small_ to him he cannot call her anything but tiny.

”As you know, it is customary that I do not hear the name until it is announced during the naming ceremony,” Regis murmurs, seated by his side once again, ”but given the situation... If you wish to discuss the matter with me, then I will give you all the help you need, Prompto.”

 _As you know_ , says Regis, and Prompto chokes back a laugh. He didn't know because he was under the impression that others would be choosing her name, the same as they chose when to have her made and when to crown her, but apparently the name is now a task on his shoulders, something to be completed within a week – and he doesn't know the first thing about naming royal children. There must be rules to it. There always are.

Regis cannot spend the entire day at the medical, and the staff still wish to keep the baby under observation just in case, so Prompto remains in the room, holding her, changing her, feeding her – learning things he should have learned with Noctis by his side. He cries more than she does but the nurses don't comment, don't say anything but quiet little directions over what to do, bolder reassurances that there is nothing wrong with the baby, and so Prompto takes care of her.

Despite his conflicting feelings, despite the fogginess in his brain and his tendency to just – disappear, sometimes – despite it all, he finds it nice to hold her. She's small and warm, and when she cries – when she's not hungry or dirty – he can quiet her with a small shift of his arms, a little rocking motion. Then, her cries peter out into a satisfied sigh and Prompto feels his heart bloom wide open, not necessarily for love, but for affection, for something soft and kind in his otherwise thorny world, and – it really isn't love that he feels for her, but whatever it is, it's more then he thought he could ever feel again.

* * *

The naming ceremony is held a week later at the Grand Temple of Bahamut. It's been almost a full two years since the last time Prompto stepped into the temple, two years since he had to give up on his husband, and as happy a day today is supposed to be, he can barely get past the shadow of a ghost flickering above the altar where the coffin was laid. Now, he stands at the same altar, his daughter in his arms, surrounded by the godparents he chose almost on his own. Luna and Ravus are there, of course, but also Ignis, Gladio, and Iris, the first two because this is the only child Noctis will ever give the world, and Iris because soon she'll be swearing her own life to a baby too young to understand speech, never mind the implications of the Amicitia's service.

The past seven days weren't easy. Ever since the moment Regis walked Prompto back to the baby's hospital room, he's been there for her, insisting he do everything he can, at any hour of the day. He's always felt like he isn't good enough, and after Noctis' passing, the feeling has only intensified, anxiety and stress and depression all balling together into an unholy trinity of utter misery and grievance.

He adores her, but somewhere around the third or fourth night, Prompto still allows himself to be talked into using the nurses hired just for her. Only for the nights, he manages to argue, and when he has a meeting he cannot cancel; they agree, eventually, and allow him to pretend that by taking care of her, he is also taking care of himself. Gladio and Ignis, though, they see right through his front – just as they always have.

The two years that have passed haven't been all for nothing. Prompto knows he's not the only one still falling apart from losing Noctis, but Ignis and Gladio put a up a front much more solid than he has ever managed, and together, the three of them struggle until they emerge into something resembling life. Gladio isn't so angry anymore, doesn't reprimand Prompto for feeling bad about the Shield thing, and Ignis – sometimes he'll look at Prompto just so, like he isn't afraid of losing him anymore, and after the first days, weeks, months after Noctis' passing, it's a sight so unexpected it leaves Prompto stupefied every time.

They're good people, Gladio and Ignis. There was a time when Prompto tried to ask them if they were okay, if there was something he could do for them in turn, but they've mostly refused his offers, instead doing all in their might to help him, and he feels so bad over it, so guilty, undeserving of their attention. Still, in the days after the baby's birth and after the news that it is Prompto who will be naming her, not Regis or the Council, it's them he turns to.

Over two years, they've learned to deal with the worst of his nerves, the anxiety of doing things wrong, of stepping astride from the road he's expected to walk from now. Prompto isn't surprised to find himself held tight in Gladio's arms, his back pressed against a sturdy chest, a loud heartbeat reverbating into his body, almost a mockery of his own; yet there's comfort in the firm touch, in the knowledge that Gladio won't let him fall down. Ignis takes his hands, next, steps so close that Prompto feels bracketed between the two bodies, and together they work through his worries, and though the names he offers are all from Prompto's memory, the fact that he feels confident enough to present them is all thanks to the two friends he still hasn't lost.

”Stella Aurora Lucis Caelum,” he announces when the priest asks him for her name, and then he waits with bated breath for any kind of a reaction from the massive audience huddled into the pews. At first, there's nothing but a soft murmur – he wants to think it positive, but can't, not yet – but when Prompto twists his head to the side, he sees feeble smiles, approving nods, even the puckered lips and raised eyebrows of the _mmm, that's not bad_ expression.

For what feels like the first time since Noctis' death, he's done something right.

(The next day, a magazine prints a picture of Prompto gazing down at Stella, a pleased, truly happy smile on his face. It's still nothing compared to his old grins that rivaled the sun on the sky – the magazine points out as much – but they still refer to him like they used to. ”Sunshine After a Storm?” the title reads, a tentative reach towards something Prompto is still working on, but for the first time in a very long time... there's something good going on in his life. He knows the happy times won't last forever but he's desperate to enjoy them while he still can, and so he does.)


	7. Chapter 7

Stella is two years old when Regis calls Prompto to his formal office. It's out of nowhere, without an obvious reason, and Prompto knows what he's going to hear as soon as he receives the text asking him over. True enough, when he walks into the office, he sees Regis in a chair by the blazing fireplace, more frail and exhausted than ever before, and something grabs at the bottom of his stomach.

The past months, Prompto has watched Regis' health worsen at a speed so rapid it's nothing but frightening. The Wall has been down for over two decades, now, and they started cutting down the number of people with access to Regis' magic as soon as it became clear that the next king would have to rule without the aid of otherworldly skills at his disposal, but still – _still_ – the Crystal drains at Regis' life. It will be better, Prompto's been told, when the takes off the Ring and boxes it up for Stella's time, but what has come to happen cannot be reversed.

Prompto knows when he gets the message. He knows when he walks into the room. He knows when he sees Regis turn to face him, eyes full of sorrow and regret.

The past few months, Prompto has had to fight the urge to beg for the Crown.

”Prompto,” Regis sighs, voice frail and thin. ”I'm sorry, my son, but I do believe it is time for me to abdicate the throne.”

Prompto is twenty-five years old. By the time the crown is set on his head, he will have turned a year older. It is roughly the same age Noctis would have been at his coronation, but knowing this doesn't make him feel any more ready.

* * *

The coronation is – obviously – a massive event. Not everyone is happy about it but it's been a few years in the making and shocks absolutely no-one, and that at least spares Prompto some of the ridicule, the belittling. The morning of the day, he is absolutely terrified, so far lost in his fears that Ignis considers getting him a sedative of some kind, but somehow he pushes through without, dresses himself with clothes that weigh him down and suffocate him like the funeral robes did. The suit he wears underneath is new, made especially for this day, but parts of the robes are centuries old and Prompto feels like he has to watch his every move if he wants to preserve the fabrics for Stella.

The entire day is slow and tedious. There's a procession from the Citadel to the Grand Temple of Bahamut where Luna, as the Oracle, gives him the blessings of gods he's not sure he can believe in. A second procession back to the Citadel, where he changes into a new outfit, where a crown is twined into his hair and jewels hung around his neck – the Citadel, where the actual coronation is supposed to take place.

When Prompto walks into the throne room, one half-a-step at a time, the hall is fuller than he's ever seen it before. Regis sits near the throne with Stella on his lap and Clarus and Iris standing behind him, but Ignis and Gladio are with Prompto, one carrying the ancient sceptre, the other a newly wrought sword.

He'll never know how he makes it through the ceremony. Afterwards, Regis tells him it was much the same for him, but when Prompto watches the scenes play on TV screens, he can only shake his head, shocked over how little he remembers. The black of his clothes washes out what little color there is left on his face, the crown is barely visible against his hair, but somehow – somehow – he pulls through. One moment he's on the dark blue carpet rolled out for him, walking up the dais behind Ignis and Gladio while a handful of noble children carry the long train of his cape, and then he's on the throne itself, holding first the scepter and then the sword.

The man who wrought the sword calls it the Sword of the Radiant. He's consulted the matter with a long list of people, but ultimately the choice was his to make, and Prompto – who recalls the titles affixed to some of his predecessors – almost blanches over his kindness. The Radiant is an obvious reference to his hair, to his old, sunny countenance, and though some magazines have already taken to calling him the Niff King, the Impostor King, his new title is a blessing to him – a small act of kindness he never thought he'd be offered.

Afterwards, when it's time for the scheduled break between the ceremony and the luncheon he will have to attend, Prompto slumps into an empty chair the second the door closes and leaves all strangers behind. Ignis and Gladio are there, the latter already tugging at the collar of his dress shirt, and then Regis places Stella on Prompto's lap and Prompto almost screams, curls around her tiny body while hot tears roll down his cheeks.

”You did well,” Regis murmurs, a bony hand cluthing at Prompto's shoulder. What he wants to hear is that the worst is now over, but no-one dare tell him so because they all know it false. For the next twenty-three years, he will have to rule.

* * *

When the official portrait comes in, the man pictured in it looks nothing like the New Prompto. The painter gave his white cheeks a hue of red, returned the smile to his face – not the grin, but something other than the terrified slackness he wore during the ceremonies – and made him look alive, like a man living in his prime. The first time Prompto sees the painting, he's rocking an upset Stella in his arms, and that's likely the only thing that stops him from breaking down himself.

The Ring sits not on his hand, but on an open box in his lap. One hundred and thirteen people have ruled Lucis before him, but not once has the regent not been one of the Lucii; not until now.

Still, it's the painting the Crown ordered, and so he turns to the painter with a polite smile, continues to hold Stella while apologizing for her behavior, then extends one hand for a gracious shake. He sees Ignis nod at him and knows he's doing it right, that despite having brought Stella with him he has not yet done anything unsalvageable, and as the painter points at sections of the portrait, explains the colors and the techniques and the meanings, Prompto listens with attention.

He doesn't look at the windows of the room. Outside, behind the Citadel walls, a group of protesters has been spitting hate at him ever since Regis announced his abdication. Racial tensions are at the highest point since the end of the war around the time of Regis' coronation, and several Crownsguards walked out of service when Prompto's coronation day was formally announced. The remaining guards remember him from training and are – almost _proud_ of him, somehow, willing to support him, and the Kingsglaive swore their support to him as soon as it became clear that the would, one day, take the throne in Noctis' place.

Prompto took the throne four months before and already, the country is in shambles around him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I had to take a short break from posting, and then the Easter holidays lenghtened it even further. I do have plenty of finished pieces waiting to be posted, so I should be able to get things out on a timely manner from now on! Sorry for the wait everyone <3

It's mere months into Prompto's reign, and he's already facing resistance from the Council. Some of them like him, others sympathize with him, but then there are the old conservatives and xenophobes who think him an expensive, highly glorified seat warmer – which is not far from the truth at all – and act accordingly. Prompto is an easy target, afraid to make changes in fear of retribution, of crumbling all that Regis has worked for in the past decades, and the hounds in his Council see his insecurity as a chance for an attack – a chance they are more than willing to take.

An old Lord of an old noble family wants to cut the funding for all welfare programs. He looks at Prompto when he explains his ideas – already refused by Regis a few years earlier – and speaks of welfare queens and drug addicts, of lazy bums and people who just don't work hard enough, of the crumbling infrastructre of the poorer refugee districts, of the places and people Prompto used to call home, and there is not a single soul around the table who would miss the direct insults. Prompto, for his part, looks the Lord in the eye as calm as he can muster, and waits.

He's the King of Lucis, now, but he isn't alone. He has Ignis and Gladio, Regis and Clarus and Cor, dozens upon dozens of others who do support him despite his lacking credentials, and now that he's resigned himself for his duty, he's come realize there is nothing for him to do but progress. So, the day the Lord first began to drop hints over the state budget and the ”unholy amount of gil wasted on people with no potential,” Prompto sat himself in a room with Ignis and Regis, his advisor and predecessor, and talked with them. Asked them for permission to do what he must do, to act out of the line drawn by his non-royal blood, and they gave it, Ignis holding onto his trembling hands, Regis smiling gently upon him.

If he must do this, then he will do it right.

”No,” Prompto says, eventually, when the Lord is done speaking; ”No, we will not be making any cuts to our welfare programs.”

He's met both with raised eyebrows and a few wispy smiles. The Lord opens his mouth, tries to speak, but Prompto raises his palm – uses the power he now has – and silences him. ”I understand that I am not the man you all wanted to see sitting on this chair,” he speaks, voice trembling ever-so-slightly, but he has Ignis' advice and Regis' blessings both on his side, and so he keeps his chin up high and continues. ”I know I am here just to keep the seat warm for my daughter. However, for that very same reason, I will not allow you to hurt our people: because at the end of the day, they are hers and not mine, and I refuse to leave her with a country full of hurting people.”

It's not the full explanation, but it is the one the Council wants to hear – is proud to hear – and so he speaks the words he practiced before his friends, prays that it will be enough. As he speaks, Prompto gazes around the table, knows he's the only person here who has ever had to starve, who has ever seen people give up due to simple lack of access to things like jobs and housing and education, and so he knows he will never cease fighting for them. A faction of his country already hates him, believes him a Niff plant just waiting for his chance to overtake the kingdom, a decades-long scheme planned out before the treaty was signed between Lucis and Nifflheim; that he sympathizes with the poor will only hand them more ammo to use against him, but he doesn't care. Or rather, he tries not to care. Ignis says he's on the right track, at least, and Ignis wouldn't lie about something like that.

”I say no,” Prompto cuts in when a heated discussion breaks out over the round table, once again silencing people without even trying, ”and that is my final word on the matter. You're dismissed.”

He's still taking weekly lessons on etiquette and how to rule, and as difficult as it is for him to treat people like they were somehow lower than him, he's slowly, so slowly, growing into his role. Still, as the Council picks up their papers and tablets and trails out of the room, Prompto watches them go with shaking hands, his breath stuck somewhere behind his ribcage. When the door closes, he feels two large hands settle on his shoulders, and a third one settles over his right wrist where it still rests on the table.

”Was that okay?” he asks, feeling feeble and tired. All three hands squeeze at him.

”Yes, Your Majesty,” Ignis says, smiling in the periphery of Prompto's vision, ”you did well.”

Sometimes, when he's called by his title, it sounds like a jest or a regret or an insult thrown at his face. Now, when Ignis speaks the words, it feels like relief.

* * *

Stella is not necessarily an easy child, but she's easy to love all the same, even if Prompto feels as if she were someone else's child. Sometimes at night, when he's troubled and unable to sleep, he'll see ghosts in his mind – one black-haired and blue-eyed, the other featureless save for a twirling skirt and a growing belly, and though Prompto knows the woman who birthed Stella was just a surrogate, it still hurts. His daughter was never going to share his blood, his bone structure or his colors, but he still can't get over the feeling of raising a stranger's child. 

He loves her, but it's the same love he feels for Gladio's unborn child.

Still, he loves her, and on the darkest nights and longest days, he tries to convince himself that his love has to be enough. It's all he has to offer, anyways; the older she grows, the more work he has on his table, and soon enough he finds that there's only a rare few hours in the week that he can spend taking care of her. In his teenage years, he watched Noctis pine after his own father, his moods crashing after every cancelled dinner date, but now – now he understands, and feels for Regis as well.

At first, he tries having Stella's crib in his office, then her play pen, but what everyone has been telling him since the start becomes clear within days: she's a distraction. She's a fussy child, always crying for contact and comfort, and though Prompto adores wrapping her up flush against his chest, it's just not a permanent solution. When he finally gives in, weeks into a building frustration, it's a knife stabbing into his heart, and the resulting quiet of his office feels like a waterfall rushing in his ears. By the time he returns to his rooms for the night, Stella's already in bed.

The nurses are the best in the country, a small group of brilliantly educated men and women who know all there is to know about child-rearing, and it's the only thing that soothes Prompto's guilt at all. They take good care of her – better than he did, someone bitter mutters in his brain – and keep her happy and healthy, entertaining her through the days when Prompto only sees her in the passing. Already, with less than a year of reigning behind his back, he feels gray and old, like his spine has bent into a deep curve, barely able to breathe under all the work and pressure and expectations – and then he remembers he's not even wearing the Ring, and feels twice as bad.

Stella is one of the few truly good things in his life. Despite the times they spend apart, she still remembers him and loves him, babbles excitedly when she sees him approach. The sight of her tiny fists flapping in his direction wets his eyes every time, but when he picks her up he's smiling all the same, grinning into her midnight-black hair as tenseness melts from his shoulders.

She looks so much like Noctis already. Her eyes are the blue of the Crystal, so striking on her pudgy face, and sometimes – late at night, when she's asleep but Prompto is not – he'll just stand over her crib and watch her sleep. If he closes his eyes, if he's tired enough, he can almost feel a pair of hands on his waist, a warm body pressed against the lenght of his back – the way things were supposed to be.


	9. Chapter 9

Stella is four years old, growing up healthy and strong, but Regis' health is failing badly enough that the press have picked up on it, and soon everyone is getting ready, preparing for another funeral. At the same time, some Council members bring up the matter of making a second baby.

The problem is this: if Stella dies, or if she cannot birth children of her own, then the line of Lucii will have ended with her. There have been no spares in the family for almost two centuries, now, and though the word is cruel, there is no other to be used when discussing creating a child just for the sake of a contingency plan. Prompto listens to the suggestions and worries with his heart bounding wild in his chest. He understands where they're coming from, he really does – he did as soon as Ignis first approached the subject with him in private – but still, it's not something he wants to think about. Another child of Noctis', another not his, another child to be neglected by him... The certain knowledge that he'd love them over Stella for the simple reason of them being less important than her creeps up his spine and leaves him cold, bathing in a bubble of self-loathing.

There have already been discussions of ending the rule of Lucii, of moving into a democracy. It's not an idea the Council is fond of, because as much as some of them hate Prompto, they also hate the idea of losing the power and wealth currently in their hands, and in this case, it is their greed that wins the war. In this matter, they will support the Crown even if it means supporting Prompto, but still – that they want to continue their rule only deepens their wish to ensure the continuation of the line of Lucii.

The fact that the woman who gave birth to Stella is currently expecting her own firstborn halts the talks for a day or two, but then one of the younger, newer Lords – someone who likes Prompto, not just as a King but as a person, apparently – suggests simply finding a second surrogate, perhaps someone more blonde than the previous one.

What ensues is a mayhem only stopped by the sudden news of Regis passing away.

* * *

The funeral that takes place is the same as the last one Prompto attended, though this time, when he walks in the procession, it's simply a performance coreographed by his PR team, not something he _must_ do. The rest of the temple service goes by almost in a flash, Prompto holding onto a five-year-old Stella who _just_ understands something bad is happening, and thus bursts out in tears more out of fear than grief. When they step back outside, Prompto ignores the shouts directed at him.

Like the funeral, the wake is easier than Noctis' had been. Though he's sad and heartbroken, this was something expected, something that had been long in the making. Regis had been older than his age when Prompto first met him as a flustered teenager, and Noctis' sudden death had only driven him further into painful melancholy. Prompto has spent the past years watching Regis age and grow frailer with each passing month, then week, then day, fearing for the death of the one person who knows what he's going through, for the death of the man he now considers something akin to a father – and so, when the day comes, it is not a surprise.

When Prompto gazes at the crowd milling in one of the grand halls at the Citadel, he sees dozens upon dozens of faces that reflect his: they all saw the death coming. The open shock he saw everyone wear in the days and weeks following Noctis' death is entirely absent, replaced by a tired sort of grief, a wound already healed before the blade was torn out of it. The people are cautious, too, slightly wary of the future, and when their eyes meet Prompto's black-clad figure, they all seem to be thinking the same; that there is nothing but uncertainty ahead of them. Prompto cannot fault them, not when he feels much the same.

Walking his way through the crowds is both easier and more difficult this time. It's easier because he no longer feels like every breath might be his last, but harder for the same reason; he can't hide behind his sorrow anymore. He receives condolences and greetings with a melancholy grace he knows Ignis will be proud of, listens to people from all around the world as they mull over their warmest, strongest, most striking memories of Regis, and it's so easy because most of the stories took place long before he was even born. But then there are those who shake his hand and smile at him, but then go on to ask him about what's next, and he either has to grind out one of the many excuses driven into him by Ignis and his entire team of advisors, or simply bypass the questions by pretending to think them inappropriate for the event, which – which they are, Prompto knows, but so is he and his inappropriateness is an invite for all the else.

When he first spots her, it's an hour or so into the wake, long enough that he has already passed the most important nobles and politicians and foreign rulers, but not so long that he could yet leave the rooms. He freezes, for a moment, stares at her – a woman whom he knows, recognizes, someone who has until now been a vague awareness of a person far more important than the secrecy around her suggests, but then he makes his decision. A nudge of his elbow is enough to send Gladio away from his side and then Prompto is walking across the room, sliding past groups and couples deep in conversation, and then she's there.

”Hello,” he says, his smile shaky as he nods at her. ”If it's not a bother, may I have a moment of your time?”

For a very short beat, she appears surprised, but then she smiles, soft and tired. ”Your Majesty,” she greets, and though by now it's been long enough that Prompto no longer shies away from the sound of his title, he somehow feels that she should be one of the people to still use his name when speaking to him. ”Of course. I'm sorry for your loss, sir.”

Prompto shakes his head. ”Thank you,” he answers, out of a reflex but also the need to say something before his brain talks himself out of this doing what he's meant to do for such a long time. ”But that's not – ah, sorry, sorry. I wanted to... I know it's been a long time since, and that I'm more than a little late with this, but – thank you. Thank you so much.”

He extends his hand, shaking, fearing – almost expecting laughter and ridicule – but if anything, her smile grows a little wider, a little kinder. In the shadows of the room, her blue ayes are almost as black as her hair.

”No, I understand,” she says. To Prompto's relief, she looks honest, like she actually did understand his blunders. ”It was – it was such an awful time for us all, and I cannot even imagine how horrible it must have been for you. I was given my thanks and my prize, and that is all I needed.”

She speaks like the noblewoman she is but Prompto isn't lulled, not anymore; his days of believing what he's told are so far in the past he can hardly remember his own naivity. Though she bypasses her own hurt and his ignorance of all she's done for him, for the Crown and the country, Prompto detects no malice in her voice, just a calm acceptance, and it makes things so much worse.

”I mean it,” he murmurs after a moment, glancing around to make sure there are no eavesdroppers. Gladio stands by nearby, giving them a sense of privacy while also acting as a buffer between them and the rest of the crowd, but it might not be enough. ”I'm truly sorry I couldn't come thank you in person before this. You – you gave me my daughter, yet I couldn't bring myself to walk into your room, and I am sorry for it.”

She presses her lips into a thin line and nods. ”And I said, I understand,” she repeats, bit more firmly this time. ”You had just lost Prince Noctis, and I imagine you had very little say in how or when that baby was brought into this world. I am glad to have done my part for my country's survival, and I truly hold none of it over your head, Your Majesty. Yes, it would have been kind to see me in person, but I _understand_ why you didn't, I truly do. It was – I still cannot believe he's gone, sometimes, and it's been such a long time already.”

Prompto laughs because otherwise he would cry. Hot tears are already tickling at his eyes and he looks up at the high ceiling, blinks until he feels he can return his gaze down to her without bursting out in sobs. ”I meant to come thank you, yet here you are, consoling me instead,” he tries to joke. She does smile, but it's just as weak as his is.

Eventually, he has to bid her goodbye; he cannot stagnate by her side forever. Before he leaves, he wishes her and her child well, admires the round curve of her belly with something akin to jealously burning deep in his chest, and then walks away, Gladio stepping back to his side within seconds. ”You did well,” he murmurs, nudging Prompto's shoulder softly.

”Should've done it years ago,” Prompto whispers back, huffing a little. A waiter approaches him with a tray full of champagne glasses and he raises his palm, nods at the man with a polite smile but sends him on his way all the same. ”It's just – I thought, back then, that Stella's more hers and Noct's than she's mine and his, and I was scared, and though – that's no justification, but still.”

The silence that ensues on Gladio's part is almost uncharacteristic of him. ”You've grown a lot in those years, Prom,” he sighs eventually, his palm heavy on Prompto's shoulder where it steers him forward despite there being no need for him to be doing so. ”You've come so far since then, you have no fucking idea just how much you've changed.”

For a brief, fleeting moment, Prompto rests his hand atop Gladio's. ”Isn't that the truth,” he murmurs. ”Isn't that the truth...”

The years haven't been that many, but to him, each one year may just as well have been a full decade.


	10. Chapter 10

They never have the second child. Regis' death halts the plans for too long, and as if the Council all had their minds wiped clean of the thought, the matter is dropped for good. Noct's jar of spunk still remains in a freezer somewhere, and Prompto learns it's not the only one, that Regis also gave his donations just in case his help would ever be needed; the mere thought has Prompto in stitches for far longer than he dares admit. Even Ignis joins him in laughing.

The years pass on and Prompto continues to navigate what he still considers his new life, a change so drastic he feels lost despite Ignis' pleased smiles and Gladio clapping his back in support. Gladio's wife births a child, and then a second, and guarantees the continuation of the House of Amicitia for another generation more; even Ignis finds himself in a romance or two, earning raised eyebrows from Prompto and Gladio both as he navigates the world of dating. One morning, he walks into Prompto's office like normal, nothing wrong at all, but then he turns to grab a book from the shelves and Prompto spots a hickey high up on his neck, not covered by his shirt collar, and that – it's something Prompto never thought he'd see, Ignis moving on, but then again – it's been years.

Stella grows up. She's still easy to love and adore, and Prompto still feels as if she were someone else's child, but by now he is so used to the feeling he hardly notices it at all. The older she grows, the stronger their weekly routines become, and Prompto – who cannot promise a second of his time for sure – somehow manages one dinner each week, eaten in private between the two of them and cooked by his own hands. He's no Ignis, but he enjoys cooking to a degree, and he's desperate to leave Stella with memories of something more normal than the meals they share in a room massive enough to sit a small army, with maids and stewards laying dishes before them.

It's on a night like this, on the year she turns seven, that she first asks him about Noctis.

Prompto stands at the stove, stirring through a cheese sauce while a pot of macaroni bubbles happily on the next burner. He keeps one eye on the food and another on Stella, who's very carefully ripping through the mix of salad leaves they'd washed a moment earlier, her tongue peeking through her lips in concentration. There's something bothering her, he saw it the second he saw her, but his cautious query over something possibly being wrong was returned with a faked smile and shaking head, and he didn't dare push, not yet. Worry gnaws at his guts in a way he's almost forgotten, but – he's not as good at this as he should be.

Stella finishes the salad and carries it to the table. Prompto can't see her, can't even hear her return, so the feel of something tugging at the back of his shirt has him startling. ”Papa?” Stella murmurs, looking up at him with her blue eyes, with Noctis' eyes, and Prompto feels his heart jump at his throat.

”Yes, baby?” he coos at her, glancing between the sauce and Stella. ”Are you ready to tell me what's been buggin' you all day long?”

She hesitates, for a moment. ”Um, it's just – our teacher wants us to talk about, about our families next week, like a presentation, and, and – I was thinking – if you could tell me about dad?”

Her words lack all the eloquence her tutors have been trying to instill in her and Prompto knows he should chastice her for it – has been told numerous times that the way she carries herself is important, has listened to the implications of her image being more important than her well-being – but he doesn't. He swallows the lump in his throat and gives the sauce a good stir before laying a hand on her shoulder.

”Of course, baby,” he says, words soft because otherwise they'd be broken, ”but could it wait until after we've had dinner? I could – I could pull out some old photographs for you, but I don't think your mac'n'cheese is gonna wait that long, Stels.”

”Kay, papa,” Stella says, beaming up at her, and Prompto spares a second to mess her hair before he has to return to the sauce. ”Uncle Ignis says your photographs are really pretty.”

Prompto laughs. He hasn't touched his camera in years, has only snapped a few dozen pictures with his phone; after Noctis' death, there was very little he could enjoy, and so his favorite hobby was left in dust, beaten by his grief. ”Eh, he's not wrong,” he speaks, just as the timer begins ringing. ”Get that, would you? But yeah, I used to take a lot of photos back in the day, so I'm sure we can find some nice shots of your daddy.”

He strains the pasta and dumps it into the sauce. While he stirs, while he faces away from the room and his daughter. One moment more, and then – then he'll have to something he has been putting off for all these years.

* * *

When the day of Stella's coronation comes, Prompto is – not ready, but almost. He has already signed the papers and given up his rights to the throne, and on his part, the day signals a change in times; he has done well, in the two or so decades he has spent ruling the kingdom, but the pressure on his shoulders has never ceased for a moment. Now, though, his days in power are over and he feels relief, an exhausted sense of gratitude, for he can finally quiet down and calm himself. At the same time, however, he stands in a room watching the stony set of Stella's lips, the anxiety brimming deep in her eyes, and knows – it's not fully over yet. It won't be, not until the day he dies.

Seated by the throne, Prompto watches Stella as she advances along the same blue carpet he walked years and years before, wearing the same robes he did, following Ignis and Iris just as Prompto followed Ignis and Gladio; just because Prompto and Gladio are retiring does not mean Ignis will be, and in a way, it hurts, seeing Ignis prepare to serve Noctis' daughter instead of Noctis, but – at the same time, this is Ignis in his prime, and the whole world can see the pride on his face.

Stella is not anxious woman – she's strong-willed and bit of a fire-cracker, the near opposite of Prompto – but here in the throne room, on the day after her twenty-fifth birthday, she is nervous. No-one will ever hold it over her, Prompto knows, and either way he understands her worries and feels for her, but – she walks up the dais and he tears up, watches her blue eyes and black hair, the prongs of the crown jutting out stark and beautiful, nothing like the silver wisps disappearing into his own flaxen head. He feels regret, somehow, that he couldn't be what the country wanted of him – couldn't be Noctis, couldn't have died in his place – but also pride, so much pride, over his little girl who has grown into a gorgeous woman, and–

–he can barely focus on the ceremonies. Ignis hands her the spectre, she speaks her wows, then Iris is there with a new sword and her title is announced to a round of cheers from the audience, and then Stella speaks up, again, reciting a litany of words Prompto had to memorize back in his days, and so it goes, as she does what he did and takes the throne back to the Lucii.

When she's done, when they reach the part where Prompto's ceremony ended, he stands up from his seat and hands her the Ring, the one that has been in his possession but not on his finger for all these years, and – fighting back the grimace of fear on her face, Stella slides it on. Her gasp of pain disappears under another chorus of cheers, her pained expression is hidden by Prompto standing in front of her, and everything goes as planned, as practiced. For a second, the Wall flickers back on, a signal to the world that a true Lucii now sits the throne, that the magic of the Crystal is back in use, and Prompto – once again feeling like a fake, like an impostor – returns to his seat.

The reign of the Radiant is over, but his duty will not yet end.

* * *

The day of the coronation is a long one, much longer than Prompto remembered it being, and by the time he's done with all his obligations, with the ceremonies and the luncheon and the meetings and everything else, he's so exhausted he can barely spare a moment to sit with Stella, to hold her hands and talk to her, father to daughter, king to queen. There's something he meant to do, an idea that has been brewing in his mind for days, maybe even weeks, but – the call of his bed is simply too much to resist, and so he allows himself a full night of sleep.

In the morning, he wakes up early, as always, and gets dressed up, takes a look at his schedule for the day. Nothing much will be happening during the first few days of Stella's reign, but there are a lot of foreing dignitaries in Insomnia and Prompto will have to meet them and entertain them; giving up the crown did not mean giving up his duty to his family. But still, his morning is empty, and so – determined, in a way he hasn't felt in years, he slips out of his rooms and marches out, to the throne room and the Crystal chamber and the crypts under the Citadel.

He hasn't been here since they brought Noctis' body down here. He descends a long staircase and enters a room the shape of a diamond, sees a door on each of the four walls, and navigates through the tombs of a hundred or so kings and queens, regents and their spouses, steps past cold slaps of marble and stone until he finds Regis, remembers him – pauses for him – but it's not him he's here for and so he continues, one room more, until–

–Noctis.

At the doorway, Prompto pauses, oddly out of breath. The crypts are dark, lit by a series of electric lights that cast flickering shadows on every surface, and the movements across Noctis' mask make him look alive, for a second. The marble carving atop his grave is even more life-like than Prompto remembered it being but somehow – the worst of his hurt is gone, his grief softened by the years, and though he's never moved on – wouldn't have been allowed to, even if he'd wanted to – the squeeze around his heart is almost tender.

”Noctis,” he murmurs, stepping into the room. He sits on the second grave, the one that will – eventually, not anytime soon, because he no longer dreams of death like he used to, during the worst of it – one day house his own body, the one not yet covered by a life-size carving of his body, and – sits there, on his own grave, his knees brushing the side of Noctis', until he finds the words he meant to bring here.

”Been a while, buddy,” he says, eventually, sliding his fingers across the cold marble ledge covering the body of his husband; ”Gonna be a longer one before we meet again, too. Sorry about that, but looks like I can't leave yet. I don't – I don't know if you've been watching, but Stella's – she's the queen now, and she's gonna be so good at it, I just know it already... She's the queen, and...”

Rambling words spill from his lips just as tears roll down his face, but the sadness in his heart is no longer the sadness of losing Noctis, and he makes no moves to wipe them off. He talks until he can't go on anywhere, watches the shadows dancing on Noctis' stone face – so young, now, so impossibly young compared to what Prompto has become – and just talks, speaks words he's been holding in his heart for years. It's his catharsis, he knows before he's even finished: the bands of iron welded to his ribs with the words of Noctis' death are finally loosened for good, and he feels weights roll off his shoulders to the rhythm of his tears, and – something happens, now, here in this labyrinth of tombs, here where his husband has waited for him for years. When Prompto stands up, after his words and his silence, he dries his face but feels no shame over his tears, smiles as he touches the curve of Noctis' cheek, and leaves – to find Gladio waiting for him, a few rooms down, where his words would've been a meaningless hush but his tone a message clear as the day.

”Hey, big guy,” Prompto greets him, surprised but not upset. ”What're you doing here?”

For a second, Gladio watches him, assesses his features, but then a grin – old, tired, but bright all the same – cracks his face in two. ”Looking for my dumbass king,” he says, nudging Prompto with his elbow. ”It's almost time for the luncheon, y'know. Iggy's getting pretty mad.”

”Aww, shit,” Prompto growns, his feet picking up their pace without hesitation. ”I didn't think it was that late.”

Gladio laughs, but soon he pauses, and Prompto pauses too. Before Gladio can speak, Prompto rushes to him, takes him by his arm, and says his thanks. Gladio looks like he wants to protest, like he's done so many times before – because every time Prompto held onto him and opened his mouth, he'd shut him up on the spot, before any words could be spoken – but this time, he doesn't. Back then, Gladio – and Ignis – needed Prompto in one piece so they could be whole, and over the years, Prompto has come to understand this, but still – that his thanks and apologies were not wanted is a thin sliver of a wound on his heart, a paper cut that stings but doesn't bleed.

”You're welcome,” Gladio sighs, instead, ruffling Prompto's hair. ”And – thanks, to you as well.”

Smiling, Prompto wraps an arm around Gladio's back and leans his head on his shoulder. The arm that wraps around his own body is twice as wide as his own, twice as heavy if not more, but it's warm and it's safe, it's a comfort and a promise all in one, and Prompto's grin blooms twicefold as he pulls Gladio up the stairs and out of the crypts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! <3 I'm @missymoth on tumblr, come say hi :)


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